Expecting Different Results
by I was BOTWP
Summary: The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Harry and Hermione have been living on the run for three years now. Perhaps they are going insane.


**This piece was written for Something Wicked This Way Comes, a Harmony & Co Halloween One-Shot Competition. My prompt was: Harry kills Voldemort during the battle at Hogwarts, but the war doesn't end there. Two years later, the trio is now only a duo, and still living on the run. Harry is trying to convince Hermione to come out of hiding on Halloween, hoping to rally the remnants of the resistance, seeing it as a symbolic day.**

 **All canon characters, plots, dialogue, and situations from the Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.**

 **I would also like to thank my beta HeartOfAspen for her fabulous edits. I tend to put her through the wringer for competitions and yet, for some unknown reason, she agrees to be my beta each and every time I am crazy enough to enter yet another one.**

* * *

They did not talk about their nightmares much anymore. What was the point when the dreams were relatively unchanged?

Harry constantly relived the moment when his best mate had jumped in front of Ginny Weasley, absorbing Bellatrix Lestrange's killing curse in her stead. Not that it had done any good. Harry usually awoke in a cold sweat, panting, but only after having to helplessly watch Ginny's lifeless body land atop Ron's.

While Harry's dreams were based in past realities, Hermione dreamt of alternate timelines. His travelling partner had long ago told him that she alternated between two different dreams. In one of them, Draco Malfoy had proudly told his aunt and parents that they had indeed captured Harry Potter, and to summon Voldemort to Malfoy Manor. Harry preferred not to dwell on the events Hermione confessed she imagined happening next. In her other recurring nightmare, Nagini slithered through the remnants of Hogwarts, eating their friends.

Since the events which sparked the dreams, over two years had passed. More than once in the interim, Harry and Hermione had nearly lost each other too. Yet, she rarely made an appearance in his nightmares.

That morning, a wet autumn chill had seeped into the tent, when Harry awoke once again from the same dream. He found Hermione was already up. Like most early mornings, she sat at the rough wooden table in the kitchen, a woolen blanket draped over her shoulders, sipping a cuppa and doing a crossword puzzle.

Rooting around in the pantry, he asked, "Do we have any coffee left?"

"Accio coffee." She did not even bother to take her eyes off the paper, but rather held up a hand expectantly, waiting for a tin to wizz to her palm. The small container slapped against her left hand as she filled in a word on the page with her right.

"Thanks," Harry told her, placing a kiss atop her mess of curls as he took the coffee and ambled to the hob, favoring his left side, as he had been doing for months now.

Leaning against the small counter next to the stove, Harry watched Hermione chew on her brio, deep in thought over a clue, as the water came to a boil. The soft lamplight allowed him admire her silhouette, glossing over the gouge missing from her cheek.

Coffee in hand, Harry pulled out a chair to join her. They had grown accustomed to taking their drinks black long ago, cream and sugar being commodities they could ill afford.

In some ways, the duo was better off than they had been when operating as a trio. Neither complained about the other's cooking, such as Ron had done the first time around, and without the weight of a Horcrux hanging like an anvil around their necks, their depression felt… commonplace. Or, at least, manageable. Not to mention, Harry still possessed the Elder Wand.

The Elder Wand: Harry possessed it, but neither of them was quite sure who it answered to any longer.

One night, Hermione launched into a disquisition regarding, "a theory of split ownership, given the number of times we have willingly passed it back and forth for everyday use, and the rate of instances we've disarmed each other while practice-dueling."

Both could use it with alacrity. Unfortunately, neither could come up with a suitable way to test the hypothesis. The other wand in their camp, Bellatrix Lestrange's, was used sparingly, unless they were dueling.

Harry remembered initially not believing Hermione when she described the use of it as literally distasteful . Following a duel when Hermione had forced him to fight her using it, Harry had spit out a mouthful of saliva that looked mundane, but tasted of bloody ashes. He never said another word regarding her pickiness. If they could ever find another wand that answered to Hermione's magic, he intended to destroy Bellatrix's wand, which had killed so many people he loved; he felt a brutal hatred towards it.

Other than the constant fear, the other glaring drawback to their current situation was the loneliness. When Harry had killed Voldemort, but the Order and their allies had still failed to win the battle, Harry pragmatically grabbed Hermione's hand and apparated them away from the scene. Whether it was because of the power of the wand he held, or if Hogwarts was in such ruin that the anti-apparition wards had completely failed, he did not know. He was just thankful his gamble had worked.

Since that day, they had learned to live with the "what-ifs" in the same way they had learned to live with less sleep. They talked through their regrets as needed, but attempted to not dwell on a long list they could not change.

Constantly, Harry drove away thoughts on whether he could have grabbed George, or Nevile, or perhaps Luna. He probably could have. But when Ron and Ginny had fallen, all of his focus had turned to Hermione, without room for a single person in his peripheral vision.

For nearly two days, Harry and Hermione had jump-apparated across the British Isles, then part of Europe. Once the adrenaline had worn off, they dropped like rocks onto unfamiliar cots in the tent which Bill Weasley had given them upon their departure from Shell Cottage. Thankfully he had given them a spare after the first was left behind when the snatchers caught them; it was a relief Hermione still had it in the bag tied to her belt.

It was only when Harry had heard Hermione whimpering that first morning after they finally rested, that his guilt started. There had not been time for it immediately following their escape, but in the weeks and months which followed, it began to gnaw at his insides on a good day, or sent a searing pain through him on a bad day, as if branding him from the inside.

What if they had gotten a message to someone - anyone - to meet them in France? What if they had gone back to London sooner? Hermione customarily cut Harry off if he ever went down this line of thinking, more so than any other.

He still had hope those first summer months. The duo had managed to get some money out of Harry's vault, via a bank transfer in Italy, before it was frozen and all of his assets seized. They had gone as far south in Europe as they dared in that first week, hoping that in the chaos still taking place back home, they would go unnoticed. It worked. They doubled back up to France and stuck there, biding their time before crossing the channel back home.

Halloween 1998...

Harry and Hermione had read the papers, watching for news of their friends, or for familiar newspapers were full of propaganda regarding witches and wizards who previously fought on Harry's side, now seeing 'the error of their ways' and coming over to support 'the right side'.

Hermione scoffed, "I don't doubt there are a few who have done so, mostly out of fear. But all of these people suddenly changing their allegiance? Doubtful. "

They read the constant additions to that list, week after week, with disdain. They also watched for anything about themselves. What little there was, they assumed it to be misinformation, as it did not coincide with the secluded life they were leading in a tent in the French countryside.

Despite their location being deep within barely accessible terrain, they set strong charms to block the sounds of their sparring and the explosions of their experiments.

Harry had been the one who had insisted they were ready to venture back across the channel that first time, with Hermione only putting up token resistance. Waiting until Halloween meant that before their first return to London, they had procured at least some resources. He hoped, and Hermione agreed, they may have gained an element of surprise. By then, he thought maybe they could go back and make a difference. He also insisted that the day was symbolic - perhaps the world was still descending into darkness, but hope and new ideas could eventually emerge. And yes, a small part of him still wanted to avenge his parents on the anniversary of the day they had been cruelly taken away from him.

Early in the day, they managed to kill Thorfinn Rowle and a handful of snatchers. The poorly disguised group had been playing a match of football, incorrectly, in a park in Godric's Hollow; keeping an eye on the statue of Harry and his family. Going back to the scene of his parents' death, and the place where Harry had twice escaped his own grim fate, meant a metaphorical girding of his loins. Harry took satisfaction in the trappers becoming the trapped.

Riding on that high, Harry suggested they move on to Hogsmeade. This had not been a part of their original plan. It was supposed to be a get in and get out sort of mission. Harry easily overpowered Hermione's weak protests. Finding the village completely deserted was disconcerting. Even the caterwauling charm had been removed. Hermione had nervously urged they leave, but Harry pulled her towards the Shrieking Shack instead. He wanted to know if anyone had bothered to remove Snape's body.

It turned out, they had not bothered. The body was sitting exactly where Harry had last seen him. Almost six months later, there was not much left to look at. It was obvious animals had come and eaten most of the choice parts.

"Accio Snape's wand," Harry whispered, not quite sure why he did not feel he could talk in a normal tone, holding his hand out. He was not surprised when nothing in the room stirred. Moving forward, he squatted on his haunches beside the desecrated body. Cocking his head, he studied the dusty remains. Could there be anything left behind in his pockets?

"Harry…" Hermione gasped, sharply warning him. The five steps she stood from him was too far. By the time she had a hand under his arm, attempting to tug him up, he had already poked the heap of remains. The air around them crackled; the hair on Harry's arms stood at attention.

With her hand wrapped tightly around his bicep, Hermione turned on the spot to apparate them away. Nothing happened. The two of them stood back-to-back without Harry's mind registering his own movement. There would hopefully be time for recriminations from Hermione later for his stupidity in touching anything, but for now, their training was kicking in. They survived with their lives, but not much else.

After reading the lists of names in the Prophet of people who had supposedly fallen in line with the Death Eaters, they should have been better prepared for what happened. It was easy to fight known enemies. It turned out to be near impossible to fight your friends. Being forced to duel against George Weasley and Angelina Johnson was one of the lowest points of their post-war existence.

Hermione had slashed Angelina's Achilles tendon early on, hoping the downed witch would stay down. Assessing George's cloudy eyes, Harry had attempted to counteract the Imperius Curse upon his friend. A Rictusempra did not work, nor did a Babbling Curse. Two more pops signaled the arrival of other wizards or witches outside the small house. Harry put all of his efforts into a Confundus Charm, and for a moment the spell lifted on George.

"Harry? Hermione? You're alive? What…? Where are we?" George looked around dazedly. The pounding of feet on the wooden floor beneath them and a quick glance out of a window seemed to give him a clue to their situation. His eyes wide with shock, he yelled, "Get the fuck out of here!"

Everything happened so quickly. Angelina used the opening, that split second when Harry and Hermione were both looking at George, to send a curse at Hermione. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione go down. Without a thought, he cast a Septumsempra at Angelina, before she could finish off Hermione. The consequence of that was his lack of concentration on George, which meant the other man was once again under someone else's control. Harry slid on top of Hermione and put up a Protego over them, quickly adding a series of Bombardas behind it.

The house creaked around them, and the pounded footsteps coming up to their floor paused.

"Blimey, I think it's going to come down!" a voice shouted just outside their room.

While Harry did not know how the spell functioned, he could perfectly picture in his mind's eye the way the Death Eaters transformed into wraiths and were able to fly away. Still atop Hermione, he funneled his magical intent into transmogrification and the idea of them becoming ephemeral.

The spell was nearly ruined as soon as it succeeded due to Harry's utter shock at the feeling of being nothing more than smoke. The consciousness he retained within a state of non-being could only be explained by magic. His inky presence flowed into Hermione's smokey side, mingling with her, wrapping around her while she flowed within him. Before he could savor the feeling of being a storm cloud, he felt Hermione tugging him towards a window - they flowed out together. Holding a tight rein on his emotions and leaving the sensations to be catalogued later, Harry held the spell until they had flown into the Forbidden Forest.

Without eyes, it became only a manner of wanting to know what was going on in any direction around them for his senses to pick up on the area he chose. He could see in the most rudimentary way. Everything else existed in a vacuum, filtering out sound and smell.

Deep in the forest, he concentrated on rematerializing. Diffused cells came back together, all miracuously in the correct places, with little fanfare. Underneath him still, Hermione gasped.

"Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit," Harry panted. He yanked vials out his pockets and began some of the field triage they had practiced over the past few months. Harry was not sure how he managed to hold back the bitter bile filling his mouth as he worked on repairing a charm that had begun to melt her face off.

By the time Harry felt it was safe to apparate, Hermione's face had proven disfigured beyond the ability of even the Elder Wand and dittany to repair. At least he had managed to cover up the bare bones with some flesh again. He passed her a Dreamless Sleep Draught and waited until she was passed out to move her.

Upon arrival back at their camp in France, Harry levitated Hermione's form into their tent, laying her down gently next to the old metal tub they kept behind a screen in a corner of the kitchen. When the weather turned cold, they had stopped taking baths in the nearby stream and instead were pragmatic about where it was easiest to stay warm while bathing. Keeping a fire going in the kitchen was easier than casting warming charms again and again in the bathroom. Lighting the stove was the first thing he did now. Then, Harry stripped Hermione down to her bra and knickers, careful with her battered body.

"Aguamenti," he said, casting the spell to partially fill the tub, knowing he did not want it too deep, as it would be risky when she was unconscious. Next, he cast a heating charm on the water, and finally, he slid his arms under her knees and shoulders, eschewing magic to place her in the tub.

As gently as possible, he scrubbed away the dried blood and dirt from her body, starting with her face and making his way down. Not quite sure what to do about her still covered parts, he skirted around the fabric, hoping the soak in the tub would get the worst of it. Her hair was another conundrum. How to get that clean when her head lolled over the lip of the tub? He managed with a bit of ingenuity to wash and condition it.

Getting her out, dried off, and into pyjamas, his final step was to tuck her into bed. Her face looked awful still, the new skin shiny and pink. Harry's only consolation was the fact that she had barely grimaced during his ministrations.

Knowing full well she would not hear him or remember, he still leaned down to tell her, "You're going to be okay, Hermione. You're safe. Sleep well." He placed a hand over hers and held on for a few minutes, his mind going blank as exhaustion began to set in.

In truth, he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his own bed, but he roused himself to stumble back into the kitchen and empty the now cold tub. He filled it again, then stripped completely before easing into the steaming water. Tipping his head back, he reran the day through his head, trying to remember the good when his thoughts wanted to linger on the awful.

"Never again," he vowed aloud after an undetermined amount of time had passed. "I did my part. Let someone else worry about the rest." He fervently believed it as he said it, the injured woman in the next room still horribly fresh in his mind.

September 1999...

They had moved to Cairo not long after Halloween of 1998. Their dark hair and olive skin allowed both of them to blend in well enough with the locals, as long as they remembered to use translation charms whenever they ventured into public. Harry had grown a beard, while Hermione had no issues with covering her head.

The modest-sized, sand-colored building they bought with American dollars, which had been easy to come by once they realized the need to convert their money, was in a bustling part of the old city. The main story contained six small Muggle stores, which they leased out, providing a steady income. There were three stories above that, all containing decent flats. Harry and Hermione lived in a corner one on the top floor. The rest were rented out, giving them a modest amount on top of the stores below.

They were now so settled, Harry's promise to himself had become a reality. He wanted nothing to do with England.

Unlike younger cities, this ancient metropolis had no distinct magical district. Stores were spread out haphazardly across Cairo. This could be both an advantage and a liability to anyone looking to hide. It was only with a large amount of luck that Harry realized something was amiss as he stepped into the Apothecary early that October. When the shopkeeper greeted him, the translation charm worked in a wonky way, sounding staticy. Not even stopping to contemplate why, Harry turned right back around, sprinted around the corner, and apparated to their flat.

"Hermione," he yelled, grabbing his rucksack from a hook by the door and dashing around to stuff loose items into it he didn't want to leave behind, "I think we've been found!"

A crash came from her bedroom, followed by a shouted, "How?"

"If you mean how do I know, it's because I'm fairly certain Gamal down at Blue Heron wasn't actually Gamal, but rather someone polyjuiced as him. My translation charm didn't sound right. I think it was because the other person was using one too in order to be able to speak Arabic."

Harry looked around the living room, satisfied he had gotten everything of value in there. He moved to the kitchen.

"If you mean how were we found, I have no idea."

Hurried footsteps revealed Hermione had moved from her bedroom to his.

Her voice sounded muffled when she replied, "Are you sure? We've been here ten months without any sign of being watched."

"I'm not looking to find out the hard way," he answered as she came into view with her wand held crossways between her teeth. She was pulling her hair up into a bun.

Taking her wand out of her mouth, she glanced out the window to the street below, then back at him. "Nine jumps, just like we planned?"

"I've got everything on our list from my two rooms. You?" he asked needlessly. Hermione answered with a tight nod.

Grabbing his hand, she began their planned chain of apparitions, hoping no one would be able to follow them. On the final one, they landed in a flat in Morocco that Hermione had rented while polyjuiced as a random blonde woman. She had paid cash in advance for a full year, placed a few items inside once the agent left, and then had never come back, leaving it virtually untraceable. While Harry placed wards that would recognize both of them, Hermione opened a cupboard and pulled out a jar with blonde hairs inside. Next she took down a tumbler. Digging into her bag, she produce a flask of polyjuice and poured out a small measure into the drinking glass.

"I should be back within an hour," she told Harry. "If I am later than that, use a coin to contact me."

Over the past year, the two of them had become more comfortable with being separated, having decided that the risk was low. Now, it did not feel that way at all.

Moving quickly to her side, Harry grasped her hand before she could drop in a hair. "Wait," he pleaded.

She looked at him quizzically. He glanced down at her lips, licking his own. Looking back up, he found her eyes wide. Seeing her tongue dart out to wet her own lips, he took that as enough of a sign to do something rash.

Thinking back, he wished he could say their first kiss was monumental, with fireworks or pleasurable moans interspersed between nips on lower lips. It was more of a desperate clash, over quickly when Hermione chose to keep a level head. She could not quite hide the shake in her hand as she downed the potion.

"I promise I will come back to you," the blonde stranger before him said. "I think we have a lot to talk about when I do."

Harry tried his best not to second-guess the kiss while Hermione was gone. He unpacked some of the items they would need that night, then paced the flat, taking note of the exit points and best spots to protect himself if he was forced to fight within it.

They would need a new plan now that they had to fall back on this place. Weighing out the options, he wondered if perhaps it was time to go on the offensive again? Should they go back home to set off a skirmish?

By the time he heard a soft 'pop' in the entryway, he had come up with a plan for Halloween.

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!" Hermione's voice rang out.

"Atrocious!" Harry answered. With the pass-codes properly supplied, Harry allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

"I managed to wire the money out of the account before they figured out how to get it," the blonde stranger told him with a smug smile. "Our speculation that they wouldn't understand exactly how Muggle banks operate seems to have worked."

"I was so worried, you said an hour, but…" he trailed off when her eyes narrowed dangerously. Taking the hint, he changed the subject. "We have a big chunk of money tied up in that building. As long as the rents keep coming in, we'll be fine. But, we can't very well go back to try to sell it right now," he reminded her.

"We've lived off the land before, we can do it again."

He watched in fascination as Hermione's features began to ripple through the other woman's. Once the effects were completely worn off, they stood staring at one another. Harry wanted Hermione to make the first move, but he got the feeling she was waiting on him. The problem was, he did not quite know what to say.

Feeling almost as if someone else had taken control of his mouth, he found himself saying the wrong thing, "I was thinking we should go back to Britain for Halloween. Is that a bad idea?"

"Oh," she said, shoulders slumping, disappointment clear on her features. "Um, yeah, probably."

Godric, why did I say that? Why didn't I hug her hello? Or maybe kiss her again? He stood staring at her, now doubly unsure how to proceed.

"I mean, we could probably surprise them, because they would expect us to be on the run again, licking our wounds, right? They'll be busy looking for us, trying to track us, while we sneak in, right under their noses. And we could -"

Hermione cut him off. "Harry, stop rambling," she commanded sharply, coming forward to take one of his hands in hers. He had been picking at a loose thread on his jumper, not even aware of the nervous motion until then.

He sighed with relief when she pulled him into a tight hug. Her hands snaked under his arms, leaving him to tightly wind his around her upper back.

"I really was worried," he mumbled against her shoulder.

One of her hands began rubbing circles on his back. "I know," she told him.

Pulling back from her warm embrace, he looked her in the eye. He desperately wanted to get this right. Tentatively, he raised a hand to cup her cheek. "I know I didn't ask your permission earlier, but would it be okay if I kissed you again?"

Hermione tilted her head, sliding her lips under his hand, laying a series of gentle kisses against his palm before answering, "I'd like that."

Harry did not care that he was grinning like a fool; the expression was mirrored on Hermione's face. There would be time for talk later, he told himself as he leaned in. The kiss began quite the opposite of their earlier one - slow, gentle, and exploratory. Harry could not get over the feel of Hermione's tongue languidly stroking his. When she tugged on his hips to bring their bodies flush, his mind went blissfully blank.

Later that night, snuggled up on the ratty sofa Hermione had pulled out of her bag and placed in the flat's living room, Harry compulsively wound and unwound a strand of her hair around his finger. She had long since dozed off with her head in his lap. Sleep continued to elude him, however, as thoughts whirred every which way in his head, zipping in as many directions as a snitch during a Quidditch match. He needed a way to tell Hermione that he really did want to go back to England again.

Over the next two weeks, he alternated between wheedling, guilting, and strategizing. Wheedling did not go over well with Hermione - her exasperated sighs led him to drop that tactic by the second day. By presenting strategy after strategy, he wore her down. It felt a bit unfair, knowing her weakness for research.

A frenzy of preparation ensued, with Hermione often playing the role of Devil's Advocate - forcing Harry to hone his ideas in ways he would not have come up with otherwise.

Already close in so many ways, Harry found the newly added physical nature of their relationship did not feel awkward after that first day. They easily transitioned from best friends to lovers. When Hermione whispered, "I love you," to him the night before Halloween, he did not hesitate to respond in kind. The thought of it being 'too soon' did not cross his mind. How could it, when he had already loved her for years? He had just taken longer than he should have to realize he was in love with her.

Halloween 1999...

All of their rushed preparation led up to Halloween morning, with both Harry and Hermione stealthily working their way across the grounds of Malfoy Manor, hidden under the invisibility cloak. It had been Harry's theory that the wards around the ancient property might still recognize them after their capture a year and a half ago. It was a leap of faith to hope that no one had reset them after taking the trio hostage, but in the tumultuous period following their capture and escape, it could have gone overlooked. A few quiet spells cast in the pre-dawn mist proved him correct.

Now, the duo worked as quickly as possible to get inside the large estate home before they could be discovered. Along with the cloak, they casted a series of spells to dampen the sound of their footsteps and counteract a Homenum Revelio.

The plan was to see which Death Eaters may still be inhabiting Malfoy Manor after all this time. Back editions of the Daily Prophet , which Hermione had managed to gather here and there, gave little information on the Malfoy family, which Hermione took to mean that they were still out of favor with their comrades. Between Draco's repeated failures to deliver for their Lord, the family's seeming disinterest in helping end the war for their side during the battle of Hogwarts, and Narcissa's known lie for Harry's life, it was difficult to imagine what the ancient pureblood family had left that was going for them. Even one of the largest vaults in Gringotts only went so far.

Harry remembered Draco's tales of white peacocks flaunting their plumages across Malfoy Manor's grand gardens. Today, he saw neither peacocks, nor grand gardens. Shrubs were overgrown, no longer neatly trimmed. Large urns dotted the landscape, some containing containing dried-up plants, while others were just beginning to show evidence of neglect.

"Do you think anyone's living here?" Hermione whispered, choosing to speak quietly despite her silencing spell.

They stood close enough under the invisibility cloak that Harry assumed she could feel his answering shrug.

Hermione sighed. "It doesn't do us much good to sneak into a place where we won't be able to do any damage to our enemy."

Harry halted and narrowed his eyes at Hermione. She quickly stopped in her tracks as well. "Didn't you tell me you'd seen something in the papers about an intimate gathering at the manor for the Summer Solstice?" he hissed.

"You do realize the Summer Solstice was four months ago, don't you, Harry?" she shot back at him. "A lot can change in four months!"

Feeling stupid for not knowing exactly when the solstice was, Harry's eyes turned back to the manor.

"Look, I'm sorry, Harry. It didn't occur to me that our information would be old enough to make it obsolete, either. But we're here now. May as well go see if we can find anything useful." She sounded sincere, and Harry knew she would not purposefully lead them astray.

He nodded. What else could he really do at this point? He grabbed her hand, and together they began walking toward the house again. After circling nearly three-quarters of the way around the large stone building, avoiding the towering main doors, they finally found what they were looking for: the servant's entry from the gardens to the kitchen. The paved area was covered with leaves. A single bucket overflowing with stagnant water sat by the plain wooden door.

Harry cast three spells upon the door before it slowly swung open for them. With his wand arm raised, he looked around, ready to cast if necessary. Inside the kitchen, they had been prepared to find it least one elf hard at work. But instead, they were by met cobwebs in the windows, a layer of dust over the otherwise tidy room, and no evidence that anyone had been using the room in months.

From there, they worked their way through the rest of the large house, first with trepidation, but soon moving quickly, and maybe not as quietly as needed. It appeared they were not going to find anyone at home.

The dungeons were the last place they visited. From their previous time at the manor, Harry remembered them being dank and dark. That had not changed. Both Harry and Hermione lit their wands with a whispered Lumos . If the search of the rest of the house had been anti-climatic after all their careful preparation, this was the surprise ending they could not have predicted.

They had walked down the row of cells, with door after door standing open, the small rooms empty. Until the second to last cell. Coming up to it, Harry's nose twitched from an acrid smell. Inside they found a rat sitting upon a decomposing body, which was laid haphazardly on the floor. Its face was turned away from the door, but the shock of blond hair could only have belonged to a Malfoy. On the wall, written in blood, were the words 'blood traitor'.

The rat seemed hesitant to move from its perch, baring its teeth as Harry drew near. Hermione walked a step behind, her wand held high, examining their surroundings. Harry nudged the corpse with his toe, and only then did the rodent choose to jump off. It moved to a corner, eying them still.

"Harry! You idiot!" Hermione's voice cut through the quiet. "Didn't you learn anything from Professor Snape's body?"

Harry held his breath, waiting for the sound of approaching enemies. When nothing happened, he let out the air in his lungs with a hiss.

"Well, at least it isn't the same trap as last time," Hermione allowed.

"Watch the rat," he told Hermione, reluctant to turn his back on the creature as he walked around the body in order to identify it.

Her eyes flickered to him briefly, but no surprise registered on Hermione's face when he said, "Draco."

"I think we should see if there is anything worth taking in the house before we go," she said, turning to walk away, her face almost an emotionless mask. Harry wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but thought better of it.

The rat quickly ascended the body again, eerily watching them leave. For a moment, Harry considered that it could be an Animagus, but he had watched Peter Pettigrew die, and what would the odds be of another unregistered rat?

As they climbed the stairs, Hermione abruptly stopped, one foot hovering almost comically above the next step. She whipped around, nearly toppling both of them over and back down to the bottom of the staircase.

"Why hasn't this place been looted? With Draco dead and the elder Malfoys not here, why hasn't anyone come to take anything?"

Harry stared at her, aghast. He had no clue of the answer, but he assumed it could not be good.

"Shit, Harry, we need to get out of here. Now!" Hermione turned before she even finished talking and began taking the steps two at a time.

Harry quickly overtook her and pushed past to reach the main floor first. He held out an arm, effectively blocking her from entering the hall.

Now back on his guard, he bent down below the height of most wizards, then peeked around the doorway in both directions. Seeing no one, he turned back to her and placed a finger over his lips. Hermione rolled her eyes at him, but nodded.

He pulled the invisibility cloak back out of his sack and opened it wide to drape it over himself and Hermione. Once properly covered, and with charms back in place to avoid giving away their concealment, they crept toward the exit.

December 1999...

A series of disagreements arose, starting in November, regarding whether they should dare a return to Malfoy Manor. They had made it out without incident, prompting Hermione to second-guess going back for books from the library, if nothing else. She went so far as to create a list of additional items she had either spotted while they were there, or she was certain would be in the house. The list was ordered from most important to marginally useful.

She had studied how to counteract tracking spells, in case they chose something with a trace on it. There was sure to be snow on the ground, but Hermione knew how to mask footprints. Harry marveled at her ability to think of everything, but the one thing she could not get past, was that they had no idea of what sort of archaic dark spells might be placed upon objects. It felt odd to be the voice of reason, a job which rarely fell to Harry.

By the time Christmas was creeping up on them, Harry began to fear Hermione would attempt a return, with or without him. Bitter arguments, with Harry taking the side of it being a trap, versus Hermione taking the side of a fortuitous mistake on someone's part regarding the wards, were now taking place daily. Each night, they still slept in the same bed, trying to separate their disagreements from everything else. But Harry would have been lying if he did not admit the strife was creeping into every aspect of their lives.

A lethargy had crept over Harry, leading him to contemplate giving in to Hermione's pleas, just to be left alone. It was only his stubborn streak which kept him from agreeing to go back to Wiltshire; if he had been convinced by her that it was the right thing to do, he would have already given in.

And then one day it happened. "I'm going. Are you coming with me or not?" Hermione asked.

He had awoken to find her standing in front of the bedroom window, back to him. How she had even known he was awake was a mystery to him. Quietly lying there, he contemplated her ultimatum. Rolling up into a sitting position, Harry ran a hand through his hair, groaning with frustration at the untenable position she was putting him in. Of course he would not let her go alone, and she had him by the bollocks, because she knew that.

"What do I have to gain by being right?" he asked her quietly, leaning his elbows on his knees and letting his head droop. Damn it, he was so bloody tired.

"Harry…" she began.

"No!" he interrupted, his voice rising. Anger was flooding his chest and he could not remain idle. Abruptly, he stood, realizing that she had been watching his reflection in the window all along. He met her eyes over her shoulder. "You tell me what I get out of being right. Because I don't see any good coming from winning this argument. So, I want to be wrong. That's right, I want to be wrong. Can you say the same?"

Still watching Hermione in the window, he could see her biting her bottom lip. He was breathing too hard, bordering on hyperventilating. If she was considering ignoring logic, he knew he was doomed.

Finally she turned to look at him. "It's not so much that I want to be right, Harry. I just think, that perhaps, we are going about this all wrong. We tried to blend in with Muggles for a year. Look where that got us. Nowhere. I fear this flat won't remain safe for long either. We're going to need to disappear back into that damn tent again. I'm trying to be pragmatic. I get that you think I'm being reckless. I see it more as a calculated risk."

Harry's eyes slid away from her earnest gaze, to look out at the streets below, just beginning to come to life with early morning shopkeepers. Taking measured breaths in and out, he calmed his breathing back down. He told himself it was better to know that she was indeed still operating on logic, albeit a different type than he would have used. "Can we at least spend one last day enjoying civilization?"

When they did return to Malfoy Manor, it was once again deceptively easy to walk into the deserted house. Hermione performed the same series of spells upon every single object she wanted to take before either of them moved it. Even then, she insisted on no direct contact. Each item was levitated into a separate bag, with that bag going into a larger one.

"Do you think we'll ever find out why Malfoy was branded a blood traitor?" Harry asked after nearly an hour of silent work. It was something they had discussed after their previous trip, without finding any good answers. He had to have done something terrible, to have been killed and left to be forgotten, along with his entire estate.

Hermione carefully sealed the bag she had just placed a series of vials into before giving Harry her attention. "I suspect we'll never know Harry. The way this war has gone… I don't see us getting that information from the newspaper. And it isn't likely we'll ever be able to ask anyone."

Harry knew she was leaving so much more unsaid. The purpose of this mission made it clear that Hermione did not expect a return to normalcy.

October 2000, present day…

Harry thought back to their final run-in with Death Eaters in Europe. It had been January. After looting Malfoy Manor, they had decided to spend a few more days in Morocco, sticking to Muggle areas, buying as much canned food as they could. Before going completely underground again, they had tried one last time to find Hermione a new wand. France had been a country where they had felt safe previously, never having been discovered during the few months they spent there; it was this that had made them think it would be safe to quickly get in and out of Rue Magique .

Hermione not getting a new wand became the least of their worries when they came upon the Lestrange brothers. Rodolphus cast a spell that severed Harry's spine. Harry's memories of what happened after that were hazy, at best, but he had barely retained consciousness. He knew that Hermione had killed both of the men, but she refused to talk about how. He decided it could be another one of those "what-ifs" they left alone. It was enough to know she had saved him.

When he was once again fully aware, he was lying on their bed in the tent.

"Please don't try to get up," Hermione pleaded when he stirred. "You've been out for almost a month now. The Elder Wand, some Skele-Gro Potion, along with some others we took from Malfoy Manor, seem to have healed you; but I had to keep you asleep with Draught of Living Death while your nerves knit back together. I also had you under a modified Petrificus to insure your lower body would stay stable. Even with the strongest sleeping potion, I didn't want to take a chance. I took it off within the past hour, knowing the final dose I gave you would wear off soon."

It had been so much to take in. Harry tried to absorb everything Hermione told him, but all he could do was stare at her gaunt frame and the dark circles under her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she held one of his hands in both of hers. When she started to cry, she buried her head on his chest, trying to hide from his gaze. With his free hand, he stroked her lank hair, letting her get it out. He had not even said a word yet.

For two more days, she kept him confined to their bedroom, only allowing him a small amount of exercise to insure he could move all of his extremities. His left hip joint cracked in and out of place painfully, but Hermione reassured him that it would get better with time.

When she finally allowed him to walk outside, he found majestic trees he did not recognize towering over their heads. They were so tall, he could not even see the tops.

Turning around in awe, he asked, "Where are we?"

"Northern California. On the western edge of the States. After what happened in Paris, I decided to take a chance and make an illegal Portkey. It took us to New York City. It was risky with the state you were in, but I already had you under the effects of the Draught of Living Death and the imbolizing charm, so I prayed it wouldn't hurt you. The United States is immense, and Death Eaters haven't gained a foothold here, so I think we could be safe, as long as we stick to the tent."

For nine months now, they had done just that, only venturing out into the forest around them, and being careful to never make contact with other people. They were deep within a large national park and felt safer than they had in years. Although there was occasional snowfall in the area Hermione had chosen for them, the weather remained mostly mild for most of the year.

Harry had tried not to pay too much mind to the calendar and the approaching holiday, but it seemed he could not escape from his preternatural awareness of Halloween. On this morning, he stared at Hermione, drinking her mint tea, while he worked up the words to say something, but quickly discarded each idea on how to broach the subject as soon as he came up with them.

"What?" she finally asked after his third sigh in a row. "Spit out whatever you need to say, and be done with it."

He chuckled without any real mirth. "Am I that obvious?"

She graced him with an eye roll. "So obvious that I would be willing to bet on what you want to tell me."

He sat back and took off his glasses to polish them, needing to gain a minute to collect his thoughts.

"I think we both know I've been getting restless over the past few weeks, and it isn't any secret why," he admitted.

Carefully putting down her pen, Hermione regarded Harry with a blank face. Her resignation at what she expected him to say cut deeper than her ire would have.

"I think it would be best if we stayed in this Halloween," he told her what he had already secretly decided.

The relief was palpable on Hermione's face when she jumped up to run around to his side of the table and engulf him in her arms.

"Oh thank God!" she exclaimed.

He pulled back enough to kiss her burgeoning stomach before looking up into her eyes. "What do you think I am, insane?"


End file.
